


Just Him

by Pandir



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 14:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15439254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandir/pseuds/Pandir
Summary: It’s when he is on his own, in a small room somewhere in a dimension far away from everything he has ever been familiar with, lying on his coat draped over a suspiciously stained mattress, that Ford is actually grateful to have hands that are entirely unique.Little bit of Ford solo action, with implied Billford and Stancest. Smutty, but no warnings beyond that.





	Just Him

It’s when he is on his own, in a small room somewhere in a dimension far away from everything he has ever been familiar with, lying on his coat draped over a suspiciously stained mattress, that Ford is actually grateful to have hands that are entirely unique.

 _Extraordinary_ , his brain provides when Ford slowly drags his finger nails over the scars on his chest that have not started to fade quite yet,  _special even_. Ford ignores that line of thought as he jerks himself, in a strict, unceremonious rhythm, all six fingers pressed to his cock to ground himself.

This is just  _him_ , alone in this room, alone in his mind, and there is relief in that.

Not that there would be any danger of confusing his own broad hands with the deceptively gentle touch of small, elusive, impossibly smooth hands, searching and prodding and stroking, delighting in his keening and desperate writhing for more friction. Ford also makes a point out of never using much lube. While it might make the whole affair less enjoyable, it ensures that the rough stimulation stays a far cry from the too alluring slick wetness of forked tongues, wriggling and pressing against him in wave-like motions that would inevitably make him lose all coherent thought.

Ford clasps his free hand over his mouth as he mercilessly strokes his aching erection to just reach completion. He is less afraid of what noises might escape him than he is of giving in to the temptation of pushing his fingers into the warm cavern of his mouth as deep as he can, of coming while choking on them, shuddering and groaning.

It is the aftermath that he cannot bear, the visceral feeling of being empty, frustrated and entirely unsatisfied.

Instead, he opts for pressing the hand to his throat, easily finding the right spots on the arteries at the sides of his neck right below his jawline, and when in the bliss of lightheadedness his thoughts blur with need, he comes, hard and fast. 

As he draws deep, shaking breaths, Ford’s brain floods with oxygen again, and whatever might have been lurking at the brim of unconsciousness that has made him come like this has already retreated into the dark corners of his mind.

This he can handle.

 

The real danger is this:

His hands used to be softer, smoother. Now, as the years go by, they are becoming more calloused, the skin on his fingertips harder and the grip of his fingers stronger.

These are not a teens’ hands by any stretch. And, Ford thinks as he strokes his palm with the thumb of his other hand, they are not soft and thick enough. They are not careful, almost hesitant even, when they touch him. They don’t caress him in a way that feels deliberate and reassuring.

Still, Ford cannot help but think that they are more like  _his,_ maybe not back then, but what they might be like now. It’s a thought he can never quite shake, no matter how hard he tries to focus on the task at hand, which is to climax while keeping his mind as clear as possible. 

One night, Ford finally gives in and puts his theory to the test.

He does not quite get it right, but when he twists his wrist like that, like he vaguely, hazily remembers, his hips jerk almost on their own. The thumb of his left hand brushes over his chest, over the sensitive skin of his nipple, and as it rubs over it, Ford all but forgets to swallow his moan. It’s a small, higher pitched whine that escapes him, and there is a softness to it that surprises him. In a strange way, it makes him sound younger, far younger than he is.

Ford doesn’t stop to think about it, but keeps repeating the motion, arching his back to meet it, and he starts all but fucking his hand, the strong grip of the calloused, coarse fingers. It’s when he tucks the sixth one away as he strokes himself that he comes undone. His lip escapes his teeth, but the name that  sticks to the roof of his mouth won’t come out, and he gasps, wordlessly.

Ford lies on his back, shivering and panting, and for the first time in a long while the fact that he is alone in the small room registers not as relief, but absence.   
  
His fingers brush over his neck and Ford half-anticipates to feel them running through his hair, ruffling it affectionately. He stops himself, stops that train of thought. Careful not to think of anything, Ford instead caresses the side of his face to press a kiss on his palm, licking it to savor the salty taste.

He falls asleep, thinking of warm skin, of the taste of dried sweat and sea water.


End file.
